


The History of the Six Wives and Two Daughters of Henry VIII, As Illustrated by their Soulmarks

by Blurgle



Category: The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-02-11 15:25:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12938142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blurgle/pseuds/Blurgle
Summary: The soulmarks of the kings and queens of England have oft affected the course of history, but none so much as those of the Tudors.





	1. England: Autumn 1501

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AMarguerite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/gifts).
  * Inspired by [An Ever-Fixed Mark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523001) by [AMarguerite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite). 



> This is a fanfic of a fanfic (of all things); those unfamiliar with the soulmark trope are encouraged to read AMarguerite’s brilliant An Ever-Fixed Mark.

Catalina de Aragón y Castilla has known since she was a child that her destiny is to marry Prince Arthur, the heir to the English throne, and reign by his side as Queen until God parts them. Why, then, has his father King Henry waited so long to send for her?

The answer to that question shocks her almost to silence.

“The English believe the name on one’s wrist is that of one’s soulmate – one’s greatest Earthly love,” her confessor, Fray Diego, explains once they are on board. “El Rey does not wish you to marry the Prince until your mark appears lest it not read ‘Arthur’. Forgive me, but I have only just learned this today from Sir Edward Howard.”

“Earthly – romantic love?” she gasps, her mouth dropping open. “Do they not use the saint’s mark to discover _marranos_?”

“Which _marranos_ would that be, _Alteza_? You are marrying into an entirely Christian kingdom untainted by either Jew or Moor. God in his wisdom knows what each realm needs most; the English require His help not to root out apostasy but to guide their cold hearts into holy matrimony, to assure the perpetuation of the species.”

A reasonable theory, Catalina has to admit. “The northerners do not always give their children saint’s names, do they? There is no St. Arthur to my knowledge.”

“No St. Arthur,” he sighs, “no St. Eleanor, and although Charlemagne was a true warrior for Christ he bore a pagan name as well. There are English saints, of course; Thomas Becket and Richard of Chichester come to mind – but I pray you do not bear the latter name on your wrist.”

That she cannot argue with.

They arrive at Plymouth on the feast of St. Leger (and St. Thomas of Hereford, Diego is quick to point out) and make their way eastward toward London slowly through the pouring rain and sticky mud, their enormous baggage train slowing them down at every turn. “Queen Elizabeth warned my mother that English water is unfit to drink,” she grouses to María de Salinas at the end of a particularly wet day. “She didn’t say how much of it there was.”

By the time they reach the unpronounceable county of Hampshire every member of her party is exhausted to the bone, but none so much as her mother’s ambassador, Don Pedro – which is why she is surprised to hear his voice and that of another carry through the walls of her sleeping tent late one night. “What are they saying?” she asks Doña Elvira.

Her duenna listens for a moment. “Don Pedro is telling – _¡Dios mío!_ ”

She springs out of bed and reaches for her dressing gown. “What is it?”

Elvira’s dark Basque eyes have grown as wide as saucers. “It’s King Henry; he’s here and he’s asking to see you!”

“Here?” she cries. “I – he can’t – Mother would never—”

”His Grace is ordering Don Pedro to bring you out immediately,” she continues. “Fray Diego – he’s there as well – is telling the King of your lady mother the Queen’s orders to keep you covered until the wedding.” Her face suddenly turns brilliant red as one of the men starts to shout. “El Rey is furious! He accuses us of trying to palm off a deformed girl on his son! _Alteza_ …”

“If that is his belief we will have to prove him wrong.” She gestures to her yawning slave to bring her the veil hanging from a hook by the bed; the girl only has time to pin it in place before the tent flap opens and Don Pedro peeks in. “I take it the King is without?” she asks.

“Er, yes,” he stammers, “but you do not have to see him; it is most irregular and your lady mother the Queen has given strict orders that—”

He is interrupted by a shout; with a sigh she allows Don Pedro to lead her out to where a tall grey-haired man, obviously King Henry, is expostulating with her confessor, Fray Diego. “Your Grace, I welcome you,” she says in Latin, interrupting them.

He turns to her in surprise as she drops into a curtsey. “So this is…”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Don Pedro replies, his voice as smooth as silk. “The Infanta Catalina.”

The King raises her from her curtsey but before she can speak again he reaches out and flips back her veil, his eyes widening at the sight of her uncovered hair. “You are – my lady, you must forgive me for the intrusion,” he says after a moment’s pause, “but in this realm unmarried ladies do not veil themselves. I must admit that you do appear more…more mature than I would have expected of a girl of fifteen. Has your soulmark truly not yet appeared?”

She holds up her bare left wrist, unsure if she should take offence at his comment. “My saint’s mark,” and she emphasizes the last words, “will appear in December, sire.”

He frowns at her. “Saint’s mark? Don Pedro…”

Slowly, and with numerous interruptions on the part of the inquisitive King, Don Pedro and Fray Diego explain the difference between the English and Spanish practices, emphasizing God’s wisdom in tailoring the visible sign of His will to the benefit of each realm. “The Catholic Monarchs have themselves been painted with their saint’s marks visible,” Diego adds, “as both are under the protection and care of the Holy Virgin.”

“Then they are truly blessed,” the King replies, crossing himself. “And you, Infanta? Do you expect to bear a saint’s name?”

“An English saint’s, yes, such as Thomas Becket, or – or…”

“Or St. Winifred,” Don Pedro suggests, shooting her a warning glare.

The King’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Ah, but that particular saint is not English but Welsh. What happens when – but I forget myself: you have yet to meet your groom. Arthur, come forward.”

A tall, handsome boy steps out from behind the tent flap, his amber eyes meeting hers as he rises from a bow – and her world changes forever.

Two weeks later they are married at Westminster Abbey; three weeks after that her saint’s mark proves her right. “Thomas,” she says at breakfast, holding out her wrist for Arthur’s inspection. “Spelled in the English manner.”

“We’ll have to make a pilgrimage to Canterbury next summer,” he answers. “Will I bear a saint’s mark, do you think?”

She reaches over to clasp his hand. “You are an Englishman, Turi; I have no doubt you will wake up with your soulmate’s name on your wrist.”

“Your name, then,” he says, smiling brightly, “for there is no one for me but you.”

But before his soulmark appears – indeed, before he is capable of making her his wife in more than name – he sickens and dies, leaving nothing behind but a tomb in Worcester Cathedral and a lifetime of broken dreams.


	2. Richmond Palace: 28 June 1507

Henry VII sips his rich French wine, his eyes on the fire burning brightly in the hearth as fat drops of rain lash against the windows of his study. _God’s tears,_ he thinks idly; _Satan’s mark on my only son’s wrist, an heir cursed with heresy – and there is not a thing I can do about it._

If only Arthur or Edmund had lived!

If there was only a way to scrub off the stain the Devil had etched onto Harry’s wrist!

Archbishop Warham had tried to offer him comfort – something about not assuming the Sarum Rite held the force of canon law – but there was no prayer, no act of charity, no holy work that could fix this.

Not since Elizabeth’s death has he felt so bereft, so utterly unmanned.

_Is this my fault, Lord? Are you punishing me?_

He drops his empty goblet onto the table with a groan and stretches his feet out in front of him. He’s never been a prodigious sinner; oh, he sired a bastard son in his youth but that was years before he met and married the gentle lady whose name graces his wrist, and although he has contemplated remarriage there has always been something – his broken heart, political expediency, and now his failing health – to stay his hand. He has never sent a man to the block without good reason, he has never indulged in debauchery or drunkenness, and if he might with justice be considered avaricious by his subjects he has always given alms in proportion. More to the point, he has never allowed himself to be stained by the slightest hint of heresy. Why, then, has God given his only living legitimate son a soulmark that would in a commoner lead inexorably to the scaffold?

He abandons his bitter musings only upon the arrival of his mother. “My lady Richmond, I asked not to be disturbed.”

“Which is why I have disturbed you,” she replies as she lowers herself into the chair across from his without asking leave. “Your Grace cannot cancel the day’s festivities, let alone immure yourself in your study; you have no choice but to put on a brave face and pretend all is well.”

“I know that,” he sighs, “but…but Henry’s mark isn’t even a saint’s name; I can’t even use the Spanish excuse – what?”

She levels him a knowing look. “And to whom do you owe an excuse, my son? We need only tell Harry not to show his soulmark to anyone – not to Katherine or whomever he happens to marry, and certainly not to…” and she waves a hand.

“God forbid,” he mutters, slouching even deeper into his chair.

“God forbids, yes, but…” and she heaves a sigh as heavy as his own. “You should have been told of this months ago and I apologize for not doing so, but: there was a laundress at Westminster, a girl of maybe fifteen or sixteen – his age, more or less.”

He stares at her. “A laundress.”

“She’s the only one I know of,” she continues, “and that only because she died bearing his child; I had John Fisher arrange her burial. I only tell you now to assure you that not all is lost.”

Had he heard this news on any other day he would have been incandescent with rage; today, however, he clutches at the fact as a drowning man does a rope. “And I was not informed because…?”

“Because you would have stormed and raged and committed the girl to Newgate. Not that you have anything to say on the matter yourself.”

“You well know that when Roland was conceived I was a penniless wanderer with no greater chance of becoming King than – than yon herald in the corridor,” he huffs. “That said, I suppose…what happened to the child?”

“Born too early; it lived long enough to be baptized but…” and her voice trails off. “You should know that I spoke with Harry before I came to you. He is no more pleased with the implications of the mark than you are, but he affects a casual disinterest in its true meaning. He mentioned something about the Greeks after Plato, or perhaps the Romans – but the point is, unlike you he doesn’t consider his soulmark a certain sign of – of heresy and he hasn’t cloistered himself in shame.”

“Perhaps he should,” he grumbles, but before he can speak again his mother rises and holds out her hand; with another groan he takes it, rising and following her out to the Privy Chamber.


	3. Greenwich: Winter 1525/6

Queen Katherine wears her hair down whenever she can, dresses in dark, richly adorned gowns designed to conceal (or so she thinks) the extent of her spreading figure, hears Mass six times a day, distributes alms with a lavish hand, adores strawberries and abhors onions, is convinced her daughter will be Queen one day, and loves her husband beyond all save the Lord God Himself.

That her husband does not return that love is obvious to all who serve, including Anne Boleyn.

In the six months since Anne was named maid of honour she has borne daily witness to the King’s magisterial disdain for his lady wife. He permits her to preside at his court but takes no notice of her unless duty or courtesy demands it, and even then he barely speaks to her; even when he visits her apartments he is more likely to converse with the ladies of her household (including, to her infinite surprise, Anne herself) than with the woman to whom he once professed himself Sir Loyal Heart.

The sight saddens her more than it perhaps should, but then again she too is mourning the loss of her soulmate’s love – and something tells her Cardinal Wolsey is as much to blame for the Queen’s loss as he is for her own.

Harry Percy is the son and heir of the Earl of Northumberland, one of the lords the King depends upon to protect the north from Scots invaders. They met during rehearsals for a tableau staged to welcome the Comte de Hornes to England; Harry, tall, handsome, and possessed of a fine speaking voice, was cast by Master Cornysh (may God give him rest) as Anacreon while Anne accompanied him on lyre as the muse Erato. Acquaintance turned to friendship, then to love; by Candlemas last they had vowed to marry and were almost on the verge of showing each other their marks – and then in a blink of an eye he was gone.

Wolsey had sent him home.

She knows why, of course; the Earl has all but beggared himself protecting the north and the Cardinal, loath either to open his own coffers or to provoke the King’s rage by asking him to contribute to the defence of his own realm, has dug up a star-crossed wretch of a girl whose vast dowry could never compensate for her nasty, spiteful temperament. Harry and Mary Talbot were married before anyone at court had news of the betrothal, probably to prevent Anne’s father from making a complaint to the King, and now Harry languishes in the North with a woman he loathes (and rightly so; if Mary has a soulmate, it slithers) and Anne is left at court pondering her next move.

Fortunately not all is lost. Her father and brother have brought many good books into the realm lately, books that argue against the Pope’s authority and decry the arrogance of cardinals who spit on God’s holy laws while hiding behind the cross. If only she could lift the wool from the King’s eyes and show him that he should be master in his realm in all things and that priests and prelates should bow to him…perhaps if she can do so, she can rescue her soulmate from an unwanted, unhappy, coerced marriage.

She is polishing one of the Queen’s many crowns shortly after Twelfth Night when the King beckons to her. “Put that down, Nan, and come sit with me a while.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

He raises her from her curtsey and leads her to a window seat wide enough for her to sit by his side while he strums an idle tune on his lute. “I have often thought,” he says after a few minutes, “what it would be like to live in the time of King Arthur. Have you ever considered it?”

She seizes the opportunity. “I have, Sire, many times.”

“Of course; who hasn’t? It was a magical world, marvellous in God’s eyes: brave men, pageantry, loyalty and brotherhood, knights serving their king honestly and faithfully, fair maidens and wizards. If only Guinevere had not betrayed her lord husband,” and his hand stills against the strings, just for a moment, “if only she had been faithful, we might still live in that world; I might even still carry Excalibur into battle. For that alone I cannot think but that Arthur was right to order her put to death.”

“A sentence both fit and meet for a Queen who has betrayed her liege lord so vilely,” she agrees, “but I wonder…”

“What is it, Nan?”

She feigns confusion. “Sire, forgive me, but was the fall of Camelot not also in part Guinevere’s father’s fault for forcing Arthur to marry her despite the evidence of her mark?”

His startled frown worries her; she stammers a hasty, semi-incoherent apology but he reaches over and gently takes her hand. “Don’t fret, Nan; I’m not angry, not at you,” he assures her. “I’m only surprised I’ve never thought of it myself. The fall of Camelot, inherent in its rise…but surely it wouldn’t have been right for Arthur to condemn his wife merely for bearing Lancelot’s name on her wrist.”

“Of course not, sire, but how can a king – how can any lord, any _man_ – be secure in his wife’s devotion if God did not choose her as his soulmate? The uncertainty must necessarily cause him great worry and weaken his resolve in all matters.”

That he does not answer; he instead leans back and strums a few idle chords. “If I recall correctly,” he says at last, “King Leodegrance betrothed Guinevere to Arthur on the advice of his priests.”

“Who disregarded the only clear and unambiguous sign we mortals possess of God’s holy will in hopes that Arthur would reward them once he gained the throne.” She shoots him a look from under lowered lashes. “They did it for money, sire, much as priests do today when they coerce young men of high birth into ill-advised marriages, and for far less cause.”

He heaves a sigh before returning to his song, saying only in reply, “That, my dear, I know all too well.”

A few days later he draws her aside. “I’ve been mulling over our earlier discussion about King Arthur,” he says by way of preamble.

She drops into a hasty curtsey. “I thank Your Majesty, but I had no intention that my simple words would task your busy mind—”

But he waves aside her apology and bestows upon her a brilliant smile. “No, you were right to bring the matter to my attention, and I do know the case to which you – modestly and with the greatest propriety, I might add – were alluding.”

She cannot believe her ears: he knows!

”Priests and prelates…” he continues with a sad shake of his head. “Guinevere failed her husband in another crucial way, you know, by not giving him an heir – again, not an offence worthy of burning at the stake, but still one that supports your argument. Suffice to say that I have discussed the issue with my closest advisors and they agree with you.”

“Oh, Your Majesty!” she cries. “I cannot thank you enough…”

“Ah, but you do not have to thank me, my dear; there is nothing I desire more than to be your servant in this matter. Now the season may delay resolution,” and he gestures toward the window, “but I can assure you that all shall soon be well.” He pauses. “I have asked my confessor to gather the evidence needed. Might he attend on you?”

She could fall to the floor in thanks but she contents herself with a demure, “With pleasure, sire.”

Sure enough, Bishop Longland arrives at the Queen’s Apartments the next morning “on a delicate but in its own way great matter,” as he explains to Her Majesty. “I am tasked with examining Mistress Boleyn’s soulmark.”

“A matrimonial issue, I presume?” she asks, but before either Anne or Longland can answer she smiles beatifically and waves over one of the newer maids, a pallid blonde of eighteen fresh out of the Wiltshire countryside. “Mistress Jane, please show Dr. Longland to my closet and remain as chaperone while he examines Mistress Anne.”

Anne doesn’t know why she and the chap-fallen Bishop of Lincoln are in need of a chaperone but it isn’t her place to contradict the Queen; she instead follows the Seymour girl to a richly decorated private room located off the Privy Chamber. “Are you to make the ruling?” she asks the Bishop as she loosens her leather wristlet.

He shakes his head. “Given the serious nature of the case it must go to Cardinal Campeggio in Rome, I’m afraid; my part in this is to collect evidence for Dr. Knight. And in this weather it’s unlikely…ah: it seems His Majesty guessed aright.”

She smiles, but out of the corner of her eye she sees Jane’s mouth drop open at the “Harry” marching across her wrist in black letter hand. “My soulmate was coerced into marriage with another,” she explains as she retightens the lacing. “His Majesty has promised that we will marry as soon as he can arrange for the matter to be resolved.”

For some reason this seems to grievously offend the girl; she turns away with a huff of displeasure and only reluctantly accompanies her back to the Privy Chamber.

Over the next few weeks the atmosphere in the Queen’s household grows as chilly as the weather; Anne finds herself shut out of the usual confidences shared by the maids and is even left behind one afternoon during Her Majesty’s audience with the Imperial ambassador, Don Íñigo. The Queen herself is kindness and courtesy personified but even with her there are signs – a lingering glance, a flicker of fear in her pale blue eyes – that she is on her guard. Only the King seems unchanged, chatting with Anne and challenging her at cards just as he always has. It is decidedly odd but as she can do nothing about it she chooses to put it out of her mind.

“The lists have been posted for the Shrovetide jousts,” the King tells her one frosty February morning after Anne has played him a sprightly galliard on the virginals. “I noticed the name ‘Boleyn’ on my Lord of Exeter’s side. A relative?”

“My brother George, Majesty,” she replies. “He’s just returned to court.”

He grins. “The young buck taking his place among the stags, eh? We’ll show him. I take it you haven’t heard any rumours about the, er, displays?”

“Only that the embroiderers have been busy for weeks. Her Majesty has lamented the delay of the Princess Mary’s Easter gown more than once.”

At mention of his Queen the King’s face falls, but he quickly regains his good humour as the Princess’s name passes her lips. Still, he does not seem particularly worried by the young girl‘s plight and their conversation soon turns back to the upcoming tournament. “I hope to see you in the stands at the joust, Nan, as I have a special surprise for you,” he says. “Will you promise to attend even if you’re ‘accidentally’ left behind?”

“Sire, I wouldn’t miss it for—” and she suddenly realizes that he has something more than just a tournament planned; Harry is coming back to court! “Your Majesty,” she cries, but tears overwhelm her and he draws her into his arms.

“There, there, my dear; dry your eyes,” he murmurs, his hands on her arms as she pulls back, her cheeks aflame as she realizes she’s just hugged the King of England. “I promise you, Nan, everything will be – yes?”

She glances over her shoulder to find a quietly furious Anne Clifford rising from a curtsey. “The Queen has asked if Your Majesty wishes to accompany Her Majesty to the Princess’s apartments. Her Grace has been working on a dompe she wishes you to hear – you and her lady mother the Queen,” she adds, sending a fierce glare in Anne’s direction.

The King stands, but for some reason he turns back. “You don’t mind if I leave you here, Nan?”

“No, sire,” she says, diving into a curtsey as he bids her farewell and leaves the room.

She intends to explain, but all she sees as she rises again is the flick of Lady Clifford’s skirts as she hastens away.

Shrove Tuesday dawns clear and so unseasonably warm that the squires and other young gentlemen who appeared in the lists on the first two days of the tournament are more relieved than put out that they aren’t appearing on the third. “I understand the caparisons are magnificent this year,” she whispers to her cousin Margaret Shelton. “Have you seen Harry yet? The King all but intimated that he would be here.”

“Nan, take care,” Meg begins uneasily as they reach the stand. “Even if Master Percy does appear you don’t know if the King will expect…you well remember what happened to your lady sister.”

Her mouth all but drops open. “I – that was eight years ago, and Mary was entirely to blame. She should have saved her maidenhead for her husband.”

“That might be, but…” and Meg sighs. “Be careful, is all I ask.”

They reach the top of the stairs but instead of being led to the wooden bench behind the Queen with the other maids the page directs them to seats at the front of the stand amidst the noble ladies of the court. Anne looks askance at him but lowers herself into the chair he indicates, politely nodding at Lady Fitzwalter to her left and Lady Wharton on Meg’s right. “Harry’s going to be amongst the jousters; I know it in my heart,” she whispers to her cousin. “Why else would I be given such a prominent spot?”

The trumpets sound and Lord Exeter’s men, competing that afternoon as foreign knights or ‘venans’, enter the yard in a blaze of green velvet and crimson satin embroidered with the image of a man’s heart in flames being cooled by droplets of ‘water’ worked in thread of silver and emerging from a watering can held by a woman’s hand. Lady Fitzwalter begins to natter something about unrequited love but Anne ignores her and keeps her attention fixed on the knight’s faces as they parade by the stand. Her brother is among the group, her cousin Francis Bryan as well, but there is no sign of Harry nor are there any disguised stranger knights. _He must be with the tenans_ , she tells herself as Exeter’s party takes its place at the far end of the tiltyard.

Her stomach is ready to tie itself into knots by the time the King’s men arrive. All gasp in wonder as they enter in a flourish of scarlet, silver, and gold, but Anne can only reach down and touch the favour she’s wound around her left wrist, the one she intends to tie around Harry’s lance…if he is there.

She can’t see him.

Only Meg’s arm around her waist stops her from standing up to get a better look.

It quickly becomes obvious that Harry is not among the _tenans_ but his absence is only the first sign that something has gone dreadfully, terribly wrong; the second is the banner snapping in the breeze above the King’s head showing a man’s heart in a press surrounded by flames – a press operated by the hand of a woman whose sleeve bears…

“Is that the Boleyn falcon?” Meg whispers in her ear.

Around the device curls three words in French: _Declare je nos,_ or ‘Declare I dare not’.

Every gaze turns her way.

“But – but I…” she sputters – and suddenly she understands.

The hours of conversations, the myriad card games, the King’s disdain for his wife, Jane’s anger at her soulmark, the Queen’s fear, the maids’ coolness, Lady Clifford’s fury, and over and above all the realization that she has never once told him her soulmate’s name—

—Harry Percy—

—Harry **Tudor** —

  
Somehow, she doesn’t know how, she rises as the King approaches the stand to ask for her – not Queen Catherine’s, not even Princess Mary’s, but her – favour, but as she ties the ribbon around his lance and a thousand eyes beam hate in her direction she recognizes with agonizing clarity that her life as she has known it is over.

In the moment of what should have been her greatest triumph she is completely and irrevocably lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heat death averted!


	4. Westhorpe Hall: Summer 1528

Impatience, Charles Brandon muses, usually serves him quite well.

If he’d waited for Harry – King Henry VIII, as he is to lesser mortals – to reward him with the jewels, lands, and titles he currently possesses he’d still be waiting, for although Harry isn’t the pinchpenny his father was he still prefers to spend his money on his own pleasures rather than his friends’ comfort. Only a few of his closest companions (basically Charles himself, Hal Norris, and Will Compton) have prised enough wealth out of his tight fist to ensure a life of luxury, and of those only he himself has enjoyed the great good luck to have won both a dukedom and the hand of the gentle lady upon whose brow once rested the crown of the Queen of France. And he won those not by waiting but by asking for them.

His famed impatience serves him nothing now: not while Pestilence stalks the land.

He blows out an angry breath and hoists his considerable bulk up to his feet as Mary enters his study, lines of worry etched on her fine high brow. “My lord, is there still no news from court?”

“Not a word from court or anywhere else,” he replies, holding out his arms to her.

She doesn’t cry – she is too much the ‘French Queen’, as the servants call her, to fall apart even when they’re alone – but as she sinks into his embrace he can still feel her pulse thrumming under the fabric of her heavy silken gown. “Do you want me to send a groom down to my agent in Stowmarket?” he asks, wincing as a corner of her gable hood digs into his cheek. “It’s only just gone ten.”

“And what if he returns with the sweat?” she asks, her breath warm against his shoulder. “I don’t want us or the children to fall ill.”

He finds himself almost amused by her Tudorian dismissal of the rest of the household. “Darling, I’ll tell him to stay with Will Cuthbert in town if there’s any doubt. All right?”

She sighs against his chest. “It’s her fault, you know. Why can’t Harry see that?”

 _Because he’s the king_ is the answer on his tongue – not that either of them need to be reminded of that.

He summons Ned Hobson and sends the boy off to town before returning to his study, but no matter how much he tries to concentrate on his accounts the numbers swim in front of his eyes and he has to push the book away. Anne Boleyn’s fault – or is it?

God’s vengeance has fallen hard on England over the past three years. First came dry mists that shrouded the sun, then cold rains and famine, and now this pestilence, this _sudor anglicus_ that steals into homes like a thief in the night. He would prefer to lay the fault for this litany of disasters at the feet of the woman Cardinal Wolsey dubbed the ‘night crow’ but his confessor Dr. Jenkins has reminded him time and again that Harry hasn’t given her a choice in the matter; he has pursued her, and if England’s woes are indeed a sign from God Harry is the only one to blame. Charles would like to agree – he likes to think of himself as a fair man who would not blame a woman merely for existing – but the lady in question is so unlikeable, so arrogant, and above all so damned untrustworthy that the gorge rises in his throat every time he thinks of her.

Queen Katherine has his full sympathy, of course. She is Harry’s soulmate (or so he assumes from what he’s gleaned over the years) and has never once in word or deed crossed her lord and master, and yet Harry still speaks of annulments and dispensations and sending Wolsey to Rome to have the matter heard by the Cardinal-Protector. He can only wonder how long this imperiously royal woman, this daughter of Isabella the Catholic, will remain the docile loving wife. If he threatens Princess Mary’s status as heir she will never give in, he thinks, and he can’t find it in his heart to blame her.

Ned returns from Stowmarket in mid-afternoon with two bags overflowing with notes and letters. “No sweat in town, Your Grace: Will’s maid ain’t seen or heard a thing,” he says, beaming at him as he hands over the larger bag. “Should I take the Queen’s letters up?”

“If you would,” he says, but then he frowns. “What’s this about Cuthbert’s _maid_? Wasn’t he there himself?”

The boy shrugs. “Dot said he left three nights ago without sayin’ a word. She thought he was going up to Sheffield to see his mam.”

“Then you’d better ask the boys in the stable if any horses are missing,” he says after a moment’s thought. “That old mare of his can hardly get him here and back, let alone all the way to Yorkshire.”

Once the boy has run off Charles pours himself a goblet of sack and applies himself to the grim task of discovering whom among his acquaintance has passed beyond the veil. The list seems endless: there’s his neighbour Richard FitzLewis; John Kyme, whom he put into the Commons some years back; Richard Libby, ditto; Joyce Howard, Lord Edmund’s wife; John Clerke; and—

—and Will Compton.

His heart drops into his stomach. He and Will have drifted apart over the past few years as their families have grown but Lady Compton’s news still brings tears to his eyes; he scribbles a note ordering Dr. Jenkins to sing masses for his friend’s soul – for the souls of all the dead – and tries to turn his mind to whatever practical help his widow might need. He cannot imagine…

…no, he can very well imagine all of them being swept up in God’s judgment, and although it might not be Anne Boleyn’s fault none of it would have happened had she never met Harry.

He finishes his wine and thumbs through the rest of the letters. His adult daughters, Anne and Mary, are safe with their husbands (praise God!)…the King and Queen have embarked on a round of pilgrimages in hopes of expiating the realm’s sins…George Boleyn and Hal Norris fell ill at Waltham Abbey but both are expected to recover…the sweat has passed into Wiltshire…deaths in Oxford and Cambridge…now here is something: Wyatt has written that Anne Boleyn and her father have been stricken at Hever.

The news brings him to his feet and before he knows it he’s in the suspiciously empty Great Hall, but before he can call for a page a door flies open and Jenkins bursts into the room headed toward the front entrance, stole and pyx in hand. “Father—”

“It’s Hobson, Your Grace!” he shouts over his shoulder as he runs off. “He’s collapsed!”

“But—”

Charles stares like a fool at the door as it swings shut. For Jenkins to be in such a hurry…

Ned must have come down with the sweat.

He bounds up the stairs toward his wife’s apartments, guilt pooling in his belly, but halfway up he stops: what if he carries the pestilence on his hands or in his breath? What if the letters were contaminated…

But there had been letters for her too; Ned carried a bag upstairs—

He takes the remaining steps two at a time and bursts into the old solar to find Mary and her ladies gathering black fabric and trimmings. “They’re for Lady Compton,” she tells him as she lowers a bolt of what looks like crepe into a trunk. “I take it she wrote Your Grace as well?”

“She did,” he gets out, “but I must speak with you on an another matter; one of great urgency.”

She meets his gaze, her brows creasing – and her face goes absolutely white. “Not Harry!”

“He and Katherine are both well, according to Wolsey’s secretary,” he assures her as he leads her to a chair and kneels before her. “There’s no easy way to tell you this: Ned Hobson might have brought the sweat back from Stowmarket. I just saw Jenkins running to minister to him – with the Host.”

“The Host!” she gasps. “Then he must be—”

But before he can reply she’s back on her feet and barking out orders. “Meg, tell Mrs. Peterson to lock the nursery doors and keep the children and their servants isolated from the rest of the household. Lady Margery, arrange for fires to be laid in every hearth and kept burning day and night until the danger is over. Bet, run down to the servants’ hall and have them set up a makeshift infirmary, and have someone fetch the physician from town. Nan, ask my confessor to attend on me as soon as he can, but don’t interrupt him if he’s administering the Viaticum.”

Her ladies curtsey and hasten away, at least one of them already weeping in fear; once they’re alone Mary turns back to him. “Is there any news of my niece?”

“The Princess was visiting an abbey in Hertfordshire with her parents when news of the outbreak reached them,” he tells her as she sinks into his arms again. “She’s been sent to Ludlow; with God’s grace the sweat won’t spread that far.”

“May God preserve her,” she murmurs. “If she dies Katherine won’t last a year.”

 _And if Harry follows her neither will I,_ he thinks.

He could never call his marriage to Mary a mistake, not while he wears the name ‘Tudor’ on his wrist and she ‘Charles’ on hers, but until that moment he’d never considered the danger they would face if Harry and his daughter and heir the Princess were to both die. He certainly hadn’t thought of it the day they married; love, a desperate need to protect his soulmate, and (he is forced to admit) naked greed blinded him to the lion’s den he was blithely stepping into. The lords might accept Mary as Queen over her sister Margaret but they’d never accept him as consort; the day she succeeds to the throne is the day one of them slips a poniard between his ribs.

It isn’t long until Dr. Russell arrives with one of his acolytes, who places a covered tray on the small table directly below Mary’s crucifix. “I thought that under the circumstances Your Graces might wish to confess and receive the good Lord,” the priest says as he removes the cover and arranges the communion vessels to his satisfaction, but before he uncovers the ciborium he glances up at them apprehensively. “I’ve been advised that Master Hobson has breathed his last and that two of the stable hands are apparently also afflicted. Dr. Jenkins is with them at the moment, may the hand of God protect him, and Father Langley is leading the servants in prayer downstairs.”

Charles lowers his head and tries to will away the guilt coursing through him as Russell takes Mary aside to hear her confession. He sent young Ned to Stowmarket; it’s his fault the sweat has reached Westhorpe, his fault that Mary, their children, and their entire household are at risk. Has he committed a sin? He confesses as much when it’s his time to cleanse his soul, and although the priest assures him that he is blameless he can’t shake the feeling that whether his choice constitutes a sin or not, God can’t be pleased with the decision to entrust the lives of his household to the doubtful judgment of a lovestruck sixteen-year-old boy.

Once they’ve received the Lord Dr. Russell sets up a monstrance so that they might adore the Host while they pray the rosary, a custom Mary introduced Charles to upon their marriage. By now he’s used to the weight of the garland in his hand, used to the feel of the cool amber spheres as they pass through his fingers, used to the Apostles’ Creed, the _Pater Noster_ , the _Ave Maria_ , and the _Salve, Regina_ ; so used to them, in fact, that he slips into a trance—

—and then Mary lets out an inchoate shriek.

Russell’s face blanches. “Your Grace—”

“The _children_!” she cries as she leaps to her feet and clutches at her confessor’s arm. “Father, you must go, something terrible is about – no, you might carry the sweat!”

He shoots Charles a panicked look. “Your Grace,” he says to Mary, “I would never harm—”

“Don’t speak to me like that!” she snaps as she pulls away only to drop like a stone in front of the hearth. “I am a King’s daughter and I expect…oh, God, my head! Everything hurts…”

Charles freezes in place, staring in silent horror as Mary begins to roll around on the floor and the acrid stink of piss spreads throughout the room. She has the sweat, the pestilence is in the room, God help them—

A gentle hand on his shoulder shakes him out of his terror. “Might I assist Your Grace in helping the Queen to her rooms?” the acolyte asks.

His mouth is dry as parchment but he somehow forces himself to nod.

With difficulty (for Mary is now shivering so badly they can hardly hold onto her) the two men carry her down the corridor to her bedchamber, where a trio of shocked and alarmed attendants take over. “Your Grace must not put yourself at further risk; we’ll send word if her condition changes,” the white-faced chamberer tells him before shutting the door in his face.

The acolyte – John Rogers, Charles suddenly remembers – gently leads him back to the solar and asks him to sit by the newly kindled fire “for the sake of Your Grace’s health”, as he puts it, but although the heat might serve to draw away the pestilence it does nothing to soothe his conscience; his wife is fighting for her life only because he couldn’t wait a day or two longer for his letters, and no amount of prayer will change that.

He glances around but the priest seems to have disappeared. “Where is Dr. Russell, Tom?” he asks the groom standing by the door.

The boy swallows convulsively. “I – I don’t rightly know, Your Grace; he ran off with his tail between his legs just after you took the Queen to her rooms.”

“He might have gone to change his robes,” Rogers says. “There was a odour…”

But at that he demurs. “That was Mary, I’m afraid. Tom, run downstairs and find out where Russell went, and while you’re at it have food and wine sent up – and thank you for not running away yourself.”

The boy gives a shaky bow. “Yes, sir.”

Once they’re alone Charles invites the acolyte to warm himself by the fire. “I’d be remiss not to thank you as well, John,” he adds, “and not just for helping me with the Queen. Are you not afraid of the sweat?”

“My life is in the hands of the Lord, Your Grace, as are all men’s lives,” Rogers replies with a steady confidence that belies his tender years. “I only pray the maids didn’t suffer too badly.”

“That’s a courageous—” His eyes narrow. ”Maids? What maids?”

“The laundrymaids, Your Grace. Their bodies were discovered after dinner when one of the kitchen boys took the linens out to the washhouse. Mrs. Hull believes they died in the night.”

His heart skips a beat. “So the sweat didn’t arrive with Ned Hobson?”

“It appears not, Your Grace.”

He isn’t sure if he feels more like breaking down in tears or jumping for joy; of course it’s a relief that he isn’t to blame for the arrival of the sweat but at the same time… “I suppose it doesn’t really matter how the pestilence arrived, does it?” he asks. “It’s God’s will either way, but I only wish I knew why. Is the Lord trying to tell the King something, or is it us He is trying to reach?”

“Perhaps we have all wandered too far from what He asks of us,” Rogers suggests. “Your Grace doubtless sees much wickedness at court but I wonder if you realize how deep the rot extends. Even at Cambridge there was so much deceit and corruption one could hardly know who to trust.” He frowns. “At first I thought it the fault of my college’s patron…” and he flushes.

Wolsey, he must mean. “But now?” he prompts.

“But now I fear the corruption begins at the root, perhaps even in the soil. One cannot blame the bell for the errors of the ringer.”

Charles can’t disagree with that.

He sends Rogers down to the chapel to pray for the dead and drops back into his chair, intent on remaining as close to his wife as possible while her life is in God’s hands. He might not be the best husband in England (as the mistress he keeps at Lambeth could surely testify) but he does love Mary – loves her more than he realized even that morning – and as he lowers his head to say a prayer for her safety he feels his heart hardening against all those who brought this pestilence to England and to their home.

The shadows have grown long by the time Jenkins arrives with the welcome news that not a single case of sweat has been reported among the tenants or at any of the smaller manor houses surrounding Westhorpe. “Once again God stalks the highborn and their servants,” Charles says to him, pushing away his untouched supper. “Whom the lesson is for, though, I can’t say. The Boleyn girl’s been stricken but so was Will Compton, may he rest in peace.”

“God’s ways are often inscrutable,” the priest admits. “If his intent is to show the King he is on the wrong path, why threaten his beloved sister? Why take away his close friend?” His lips thin as he glances at the bedchamber door. “I understand from the servants that Dr. Russell departed Westhorpe with some haste. Did he by any chance anoint Her Grace before he fled?”

Charles shakes his head. “We received the Lord but Russell fled the moment Mary fell ill. I can’t say I acted with any great courage either; if young Rogers hadn’t snapped me out of it I might have been at his heels.”

“Your Grace should not confuse momentary panic with outright cowardice; as your confessor I advise you not to give it another thought. That said, I should rectify Russell’s omission immediately.” He pauses. “Has Your Grace sent word to the King?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and heaves a sigh; he knew there was something he’d forgotten. “Harry would kill me if I didn’t; thank you.”

The letter written and sent off with a groom doubtless relieved to be sent away from a plague house, he tries to pray again but memories of his wife – his lovely, gracious wife – instead flood his mind.

Mary laughing at Eltham, her joy so infectious even dour old King Henry can’t help but laugh along with her.

Mary peering up shyly from under lowered lashes during the announcement of her betrothal to Carlos of Castile.

Mary blushing as she and Charles take a turn around her mother’s rose garden at Greenwich.

Mary weeping and pleading with Harry, begging on her knees not to be sent to France.

Mary, dignified and remote on her throne beside King Louis at the palace of Tournelles.

Mary in French white widow’s weeds, tears streaming down her face as she tells Charles of King Francis’s visit.

Mary at his side, beaming as the kindly Archbishop of Paris pronounces them man and wife.

Mary cradling their son in her arms—

“Your Grace?”

“She doesn’t deserve this, Father,” he says to Jenkins through his tears. “You know the extent of my sins; you hear of them every day. Why her and not me?”

“I cannot answer that, my son. I can tell you that the physician, Dr. Jones, is with Her Grace right now and is cautiously optimistic, although he makes no promises.”

“How can he? It isn’t his fault Mary is – is…” but his voice fails him and he has to down another goblet of wine before he can continue. “Did I ever tell you why Harry let us wed?”

He’s so used to Charles’s wandering mind that he doesn’t even blink at the change of topic, saying only, “Do Your Graces’ marks not match?”

“They do, and if Mary hadn’t been born a princess that might have been the primary concern, but in our case matters were more…complicated, I’d guess you’d say,” he replies. “When a French king dies his widow is usually kept in seclusion for two months in the company of nuns and female servants to ensure any child she bears is her husband’s; the day after Louis’s death Mary was escorted to the Hôtel Cluny by the Duchess of Angoulême. Three weeks after the doors closed behind her King Francis advised her that she was to remain in seclusion until either he was in the position to wed her himself or she ‘found her soulmate amongst the nuns’ – in other words, until she took the veil. Luckily for us Mary still had a few English ladies in her household and one managed to get word out to the ambassador in residence. Harry ranted and raged when he heard the news, even asked God to strike Francis down where he stood—”

Jenkins chuckles.

“—but he was on the point of declaring war when I showed him the ‘Tudor’ on my wrist and suggested he send me to her. Fortunately Francis likes to think of himself as a chivalrous man of his word; he professed himself so amused at my having insinuated myself into Cluny ‘amongst the nuns’ that he sent the Archbishop of Paris to celebrate our wedding.”

“A happy day for both yourself and Her Grace,” he says. “Even so, King Henry must have been surprised to discover you were his sister’s match.”

At that he smiles. “More shocked than surprised,” he says. “When I showed him my mark he doubled over like he’d been punched in the gut and kept repeating ‘why didn’t you tell me, Charles; why didn’t you say something?’ over and over again. He ordered me to France as soon as Wolsey and I were able to calm him down. And that,” he adds, his face falling as the sound of a distant church bell echoes through the open window, “is why we were married in France. You were still at Magdalene College; what did you hear about it there?”

“Only that it was thought Your Graces were fortunate not to have been sent to the Tower, but of course we were not made privy to the pertinent details.” He pauses, leaning forward in his chair. “You mentioned that an English lady got word out to His Majesty’s ambassador. It wasn’t…it wasn’t Anne Boleyn, was it? If I recall, her father was the ambassador even then.”

“It was Mary, her elder sister,” he sighs, “and therein lies another tale. Mary Boleyn – Lady Carey, as she is now – was my Mary’s chamberer at the time. She was the most loyal and kind-hearted servant any lady could have asked for; brave, too, for she spirited Mary’s letter out to Sir Thomas behind the guards’ backs and never once complained at the penalty she paid for it.” The corners of his mouth turn down. “I can never prove it but I believe Anne was the one who told Francis who had ‘betrayed’ him. Certainly Mary paid the price for her courage soon enough.”

Jenkins opens his mouth to speak but his cheeks redden in obvious understanding. “The Great Prostitute.”

“Aye, and made so because although Francis couldn’t punish us for thwarting his intentions toward my wife, he could punish the girl who’d made it possible. He took her by main force, intimidated her into laying with his lords…if there had been any way to bring her with us we would have but Francis wouldn’t let her leave.”

“And yet King Henry has also…”

That truth Charles isn’t ready to discuss yet. He might not be the best of husbands but he can’t imagine using his power as a duke to intimidate any woman into his bed illicitly, let alone a girl as scared and damaged as Mary Boleyn was upon her return to England. And yet Harry is his closest friend and his monarch as well: what right does he have to criticize a king?

A noise from the next room interrupts his thoughts, but before he can rise her chamberer sticks her head through the doorway. “It’s the Queen!” she cries, beckoning to him. “Come, Your Grace: come quickly!”

Mary is writhing in bed and sweat is pouring off her body; Charles wrinkles his nose at the mingled stinks of piss, shit, and blood and kneels by her side of as Dr. Jones does his best to dry her sopping brow from the other side of the bed. He doesn’t need to be told what’s happening, doesn’t need the exhausted doctor, the chanting priest, or Mary’s anguished ladies to confirm the evidence of his eyes; he takes her flailing hand and holds it tight, heedless of any danger he might be putting himself into. This is his wife, his soulmate; he cannot, he will not let her pass into the Lord’s arms alone.

For a brief moment she senses his presence; her fingers tremble and her head jerks to the right, her eyes searching his face as she heaves breath after shaky, convulsive breath. “Hal…the girls…”

“They’re fine,” he assures her, although he has no idea if he’s telling the truth. “I’ll keep them safe and…and so will you after you recover—”

But as he says the bitter awful lie Mary’s eyes roll up into her head and she begins to shake again, the sweat dribbling off her in rivulets. “Jesus, I – I…” and she is gone.

Mary, his soulmate, the mother of his only son, the only woman he has ever truly loved, is dead – and somewhere in his chest his heart turns to stone. _She will pay for this_ , he thinks savagely; _if I have to spend the rest of my life searching for a way, the Boleyn bitch will pay for this._

 

 


End file.
